


Wild Card

by ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Next Generation, Quidditch, Sexual Situations, Strong Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was going to happen eventually: Oliver Wood had to retire. But when the decision was made for him, he allowed himself to be tricked into grooming his replacement. However, coaching proved to be a completely different animal, especially when the untried and unbridled Roxanne Weasley pushed his limits every step of the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Between Days

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter titles are song titles from The Cure, as this work was a gift to someone who loves them very much. Here's hoping you enjoy it as much as she did!

 

The door to the office of Philbert Deverill, Puddlemere United’s general manager, was ajar, and Oliver Wood stepped through. He had been summoned, and the opening was his cue to come right in. This meeting had been inevitable, and what was going to happen had been coming for the past few years.

Hunched over his desk with his nose a few mere inches from the parchment upon which he was furiously scribbling, Philbert jumped when Oliver closed the door behind him. Nearly hyperventilating, Philbert said, “Merlin, Wood! You nearly scared me to death.”

“Sorry,” Oliver mumbled, not particularly apologetic. “You, er, wanted to see me, Phil?”

Nodding, Philbert said, “Quite so.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Please, sit down.”

Oliver wanted nothing less than to sit down, but whether he wanted it to or not, the end result of this conference wasn’t going to change. Being uncooperative would do nothing but make it more painful for both parties. With that in mind, he flopped as nonchalantly as he could into the chair and pretended that he didn’t already know what was going to be said. “What’s up?”

Frowning at the papers in front of him, Philbert mumbled, “Damned ledgers never seem to come out the way I’d like. I rather miss the days when we made more money than we spent.”

With a wry laugh, Oliver pretended that he could possibly care about Philbert’s problems when his own were about to escalate dramatically. Feigning optimism, he said, “We’ll bounce back. The team should be better this year.” It wasn’t that Oliver didn’t believe his own words, but both men knew that it was highly unlikely. That was the crux of this encounter.

“I think so, yes,” Philbert said, still not meeting Oliver’s gaze. “I’m in the midst of making a few changes, and hopefully we can make a run at the playoffs and draw some bigger crowds this season.”

Surprised at the conviction in Philbert’s voice, Oliver said, “I wouldn’t say playoffs, but we’ll at least do better than Portree and Ballycastle.”

“You see my predicament,” Philbert said, sighing heavily. “The organisation’s goal isn’t to not finish last every season. Puddlemere has a long-standing tradition of victory and pride, and for the past few years, we’ve had neither of those things.”

“I see,” Oliver said. Wanting this uncomfortable meeting to end, he got straight to the point. “So, what do you want with me, then?”

Philbert shifted in his seat, undoubtedly unnerved by Oliver taking control over the direction of the conversation. It was likely that the man had rehearsed a speech in his head and hadn’t expected any participation from the other side. He must not have learnt a lot about Oliver Wood over the past twenty-six years. “The owner and I have decided that some personnel changes are in order. I’ve signed eight new players for various positions, and a new coaching staff will be in place before the start of the season.”

Taking a deep breath, Philbert finally said what Oliver had been expecting and frankly dreading. “We’ve decided not to renew your contract for this season.” He managed to glance at Oliver before diverting his eyes once more. “Wood, you’re forty-five years old, and you’re just not the player you used to be. It’s not something I want to do, but —”

“I get it,” Oliver interjected, feeling oddly relieved.

All summer, he had waited for the summons and knew what it would mean, and all summer, he had tried to speculate in his mind how much of a blow it was going to be. But now that the moment he'd been avoiding had finally arrived, he found that he felt none of that. There wasn’t enough left in the tank for another season — he’d realised that after the disastrous end of the previous campaign — but somehow, someone else making the decision for him to retire for him made it a lot easier. No more waffling, no more weighing the pros and cons, no more fitness training in the flesh-frying heat. His life was his own again, and for the first time in his entire existence, its lack of involvement with Quidditch was okay. Having it set in stone at last was rather liberating.

Philbert was definitely taken aback. “Y-you do?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said, even allowing a ghost of a smile to play on his lips. “I’ve known it for a while now,” he admitted.

His head lolling back to stare at the ceiling, Philbert said, “You have no idea how much I’ve been dreading this.”

“I think I do,” Oliver said dryly. “I’m just glad I don’t have to wait anymore.”

After a long pause, Philbert pushed one of the many piles of paper on the desk toward Oliver. “Read this.”

Oliver’s eyes glazed over a bit as he tried to take in the copious amounts of contractual jargon, but the point of the document didn’t escape him. “You… you want me to _coach?_ ” he asked incredulously.

“I asked some of your old Quidditch mates from school what sort of Captain you were. They found you very…”

“Focused?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking. ‘Maniacal’ was a more prevalent description, but that’s irrelevant.”

A chortle snuck out of Oliver before he could stop it. There were many words he could have used to describe his teenage years, and ‘maniacal’ was one that he would have chosen himself. Everything considered — his father, his drive to be a pro Quidditch player, and a certain someone with whom he had missed his chance — Oliver thought that ‘maniacal’ was damned decent.

Clearly mistaking Oliver’s rumination for offence, Philbert said quickly, “At any rate, you have what it takes to coach at this level. You’re really intelligent about the game and a student of your position. Even if there isn’t room on the roster, Puddlemere will always have a place for you, lad.”

There were so many reasons for Oliver to say ‘no’, but when he opened his mouth, not a single one of them deigned to come out on the own accord. Instead, his traitorous lips said, “Fine. Where do I sign?”


	2. Boys Don't Cry

_I’m a bloody idiot_.

Oliver became more and more horrified as the practice wore on. It was the first time that he had got the chance to see his two new Keepers play in person, and he couldn’t have been more unimpressed if he’d tried. One of them looked like he couldn’t catch a cold, and the other one had difficulty focusing on the speed of the game. And it rankled to watch, because there was no way in hell that either of these stiffs could possibly play any better than him at his worst, yet he’d lost his job to them. The more he saw, the more he wanted to turn back time and bow out of this insanity.

Angrily, he shouted, “Get off the pitch before I lose my lunch!”

The duo contritely touched down in front of Oliver, only to be scalded by his fiercest scowl. “Are you two trying to embarrass yourselves, or did you hit your heads and forget how to play?”

The first one, Logan Duffie, flushed and ducked his head in shame. “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Bollocks,” Oliver said. Turning on his second pupil, Roxanne Weasley, he said, “And you! Try reading the play for once, because right now, the only time you’re finding the Quaffle is when it’s already behind you. At least Butterfingers here,” indicating Logan, “can actually _touch_ the fucking thing!”

To Oliver’s surprise, however, this one wasn’t so easily cowed. “My timing’s off. Give me a week, and I’ll take your job all over again.”

“I doubt that, Weasley,” Oliver sneered. “Unless I suddenly decide to clean toilets for a living. Now get your arses back out there and pretend like you know what the hell you’re doing.” As they both darted off to take the hoops once again, Oliver finally understood the magnitude of what he’d signed up for. He would’ve been better of retiring for good or chopping off his own arm — anything but this. He was being asked to turn untried school children into professional athletes; Roxanne was the eldest of the two at age twenty, which made him feel really, really old.

But after that exchange, he realised that his problems weren’t just skill related; attitude was going to be an issue, as well. Logan was a scared little bunny rabbit, and Roxanne had an ego the size of the Atlantic, neither of which were very helpful in the coaching process.

Either way, it was going to be a long season.

 

 

After eight weeks, four scrimmages against neighbouring Appleby, a year’s worth of headache potion, and copious amounts of aggravation, Oliver made his final decision as to which of the fledgling Keepers would be starting the first match of the season, which was scheduled for a week from that very day.

Both of them stood before him, and for once, Roxanne was silent. He could tell that she wanted desperately to say something, but it had not taken her long to learn that incessant chattering equalled running laps around the pitch. But all that had done was to make her stronger and more determined to prove him wrong. Logan, however, did not fare quite as well. His skill set was good, but under pressure, his nervous habit of dropping easy catches acted up. After a while, Oliver stopped being able to pass this off as the jitters and was more inclined to think that the lad was simply not cut out for the rigours of a full Quidditch season. Logan didn’t refute that fact with his constant fidgeting, either.

Having sufficiently tortured them with the suspense, Oliver said finally, “You both have worked hard, and you almost look like Keepers out there. But only one of you can be Number One, and,” extending his arm, he clapped Roxanne on the shoulder, “that’s you, Weasley.” Their respective reactions told him all he needed to know about whether he had made the right decision; Roxanne pumped her fist while Logan let out a sigh of relief.

When he sent them back onto the pitch, Oliver was sure that the correct Keeper would be taking over the hoops for Puddlemere.

 

 

The Sunday afternoon sun beat down on the pitch as the visiting Pride of Portree took the air. The crowd was small for an opening day match, but considering the quality of the few previous years’ teams, it wasn’t unexpected. That didn’t stop them from jeering their biggest rival with everything they had. And those boos turned to cheers when the home team was introduced. The few returning players were treated with the typical enthusiasm, especially the Seeker and Captain, Jamie Moorehouse, but Oliver found himself surprised and maybe a little bit wounded when Roxanne’s name was met with a huge wave of applause. He could see her ego inflating all the way up in the press box where he was watching the game, but as much as he was loath to admit it, that could have been him about twenty-five years prior.

From the opening toss-up, Oliver could see the merits of Philbert’s re-worked line-up. The three brand new Chasers were faster and had quicker hands, and they put up a goal in under a minute. Roxanne made the first few routine saves look easy, and despite letting in a couple quick goals, her next blocks after that were sparkling.

When the match ended, Puddlemere United picked up its first win in its past twelve games, dating back to the middle of the previous season. The noise that accompanied Jamie’s triumph in the head to head drag race for the Snitch belied the size of the audience, and all the players piled up in the centre of the pitch, laughing and embracing one another joyously. Even in the press box, where the reserve players and the coaches sat, erupted in cheers at that moment. Oliver found himself hugging Mike Gillian, the Beaters’ coach.

Everyone, staff and spectator alike, began filtering onto the field to congratulate the team on their win. The first person Oliver wanted to see was Roxanne, to tell her how well she’d done. Though there had been a couple soft goals against her, she made more than enough quality saves to make up for them. He figured being coached was the furthest thing from her mind, but she would need something to think about before practice on Monday.

But he couldn’t find her. He hadn’t expected it to be simple to spot one person in a crowd of almost five-hundred, but as tall as she was, he had thought she wouldn’t have blended in so bloody well. It took him almost ten minutes to locate Roxanne, which was due to her not being anywhere near the jubilant throng. Instead, she was sitting on the ground against the bleachers, almost out of sight, her face buried in her knees. She was… crying. Oliver couldn’t believe that somewhere in this sulky mess of chocolate brown hair and Quidditch robes was the girl who had held her chin up so defiantly the first time they’d met.

What he was supposed to do was beyond him, but Oliver felt compelled to do something. He’d never had to deal with crying women before, since Alicia, Katie, and Roxanne’s own mother, Angelina, had never done anything of the sort — at least not in his presence. He had yelled at her and berated her for weeks, and that hadn’t garnered so much as a chin wobble, but she was in tears because they won. He couldn’t have been more confused if he tried.

Taking a steadying breath, Oliver hesitantly asked, “Are you all right?” He wanted to kick himself when he said it, since it was obvious she was _not_ all right. Two seconds in and he had already cocked up.

Roxanne lifted her chin and looked at him through her watery eyes. She wiped at her tears with her sleeve and sniffed loudly. “I’m fine.”

Oliver sighed and sat down next to her. “No, you’re not, kid.” Albeit reluctantly, he added, “If you want, you can tell me about it.” Whatever it was, he hoped to whatever deities that were listening that it wasn’t about ‘girl’ problems.

“I should have _made_ that save on the fourth goal. It was a routine stop that a second-year could've had, but I completely missed it.”

Frowning, Oliver asked, “ _That’s_ what you’re upset about?”

“We could have lost!”

“But we _didn’t_ lose, so who cares?” He leant back against the bleachers, trying hard not to laugh. “You’re going to let in some bad ones, no matter how long you play. The important part is that you made the rest of the saves you needed to make. Worry about the ones you missed later; that’s what practice is for.”

She huffed. “ _You_ never acted like that. Every time you missed a save you thought you should’ve made, you acted like you were going to tear someone to bits!”

“I did not!” Oliver said defensively, though he knew she was right. The lack of conviction in his voice told her so, as well, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. He had no idea why he was laughing, but when Roxanne joined in, he felt vindicated. At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

Quiet fell between them for a while before Oliver blurted, “Listen, Roxanne —”

“Call me Roxy,” she interjected. “Only Nana Weasley calls me ‘Roxanne’, and only then if I’m in some sort of trouble.”

He bit back a laugh. Considering who her father was, Oliver imagined that the amount of trouble she could make was enormous, but he knew better than to say so. He wasn’t a complete dunce with women, even if he was middle-aged and single. Instead, he finished his prior thought. “All right, then, _Roxy_. The boys usually go to the pub and have a few drinks after games. Normally rookies hang out on their own, but if you’re with me…”

“No thanks,” Roxanne said curtly. “I’m not comfortable around drinking. Dad used to drink a lot after the war, and I just… can’t.”

Whatever camaraderie he had built between them vanished; he could feel it. Desperate not to waste all of his hard work, Oliver said, “Then I’ll take you to dinner. No alcohol required.” Though he wasn’t sure what propelled him to do it, he truly did want her to accept.

She looked at him strangely for a moment but nodded. “Sure. But only if I get to pick.”

 

 

“And then _boom!_ It didn’t just set fire to the rug; the whole settee went up.”

Both Oliver and Roxanne laughed as she recounted stories of what it was like to grow up around experimental joke products. It seemed the perfect setting, considering she had selected pizza for her dinner of choice, and as they plied themselves with fizzy drink and slice after slice, the tales grew more and more raucous. He had a new appreciation for the dangers of being a Weasley, and since he didn’t have anything quite as interesting to add from his own life, he was more than content to listen to her talk instead.

But Roxanne was having none of it. “Come on, you have to have _something_ interesting that’s happened to you. We’re supposed to be taking turns.”

Sipping his drink, Oliver said as nonchalantly as he could, “My family isn’t very interesting at all. My dad played a little pro Quidditch for Appleby, but that’s about it.” He didn’t want to tell her that he’d not spoken to either of his parents for almost a decade — not since the last time his father had cropped up, asking for booze money. Or that he had a self-imposed lack of a social life, despite hundreds of girls sending him their knickers in the post the first fifteen years of his career. Or that he really wanted a monstrous glass of scotch right at that moment. “I told you; I’m not all that interesting.”

“Rubbish!” Roxanne said with an eye roll. “Tell me about… tell me about _your_ first game.”

Oliver laughed derisively. “Not much to tell there. I was a bundle of nerves, and it showed. After letting in five in a row, I got pulled. Fifteen minutes into the game.” Of course, no such thing had happened. He’d actually won the game by a large margin, but he knew she was still sensitive about letting a couple of those goals get away from her; showing her up would have been counter-productive.

She eyed him suspiciously, as if she knew he’d made it up, but her mouth arced into a smile. “I see.” Taking a bite of her pizza, she held his gaze while she chewed. When her perusal made him shift uncomfortably, she pointed at him and said, “Ha! I knew you were lying.”

Holding up his hands in surrender, Oliver said, “Fine, you win! I won.” Seeing the gleam of triumph in her eyes, he added, “But I still meant what I said. I _did_ have a game like that once. I worked through it in practice, and I did better my next time out.”

“Okay, I get it,” she said. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow. Just don’t make me worry about thinking twice before I believe anything else you say.”

Chuckling, Oliver said, “Deal.”

The rest of the meal passed in much the same fashion: Roxanne chattering away while fishing for more anecdotes from Oliver. After almost an hour of his uncooperative deflection, she finally gave up and talked about herself instead. He couldn’t help but envy her enthusiasm when she regaled him with tales of her family and friends. By the time he had realised that he’d missed out on a lot of those things by driving himself so hard to succeed at Quidditch, it was already too late to go back. It was fortunate for him that she did most of the talking, because he know it was unlikely that he would’ve been able to keep that note of regret from her. She was perceptive, and he was a terrible liar.

After they had demolished the largest pizza the restaurant offered, Oliver said, “We should probably head back.” Standing, he held out his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“I can find it on my own, you know,” she replied. “I’m a big girl.”

It surprised Oliver how much the thought of her walking the streets alone at night bothered him. Since she lived in town, the best she should do was Apparate into a quiet alley and walk the rest of the way. It wasn’t far — only about a half mile — but he felt much better about knowing she got home all right. “I insist,” he said finally. When she looked ready to protest, he added, “Humour me.” Oliver could see her acquiesce, and he immediately felt better. Though chivalry was supposed to be sexist and unnecessary in modern society, he couldn’t help it. His mother would’ve expected him to walk a lady home, no matter how un-girly said lady was.

As they strolled to the nearest convenient spot from which to Apparate, that last thought made him pause. It made him feel horrible for even thinking it, but despite her lack of feminine attitudes, Roxanne was anything but unfeminine. Her athleticism helped her walk with an easy grace, and her build was slender, almost elegant. No doubt her appearance had inspired unchaste thoughts in the boys at school and jealousy amongst the other girls.

Oliver barely noticed when they stopped walking, but when he did, Roxanne was looking at him with great amusement. “Where were you while I’ve been talking?”

“What?” he asked absently. He flushed when he realised that he hadn’t been paying attention at all to what she’d been saying, even to the point where he had not even known that she was speaking at all. “Sorry. My mind wandered a bit.”

“Care to share?”

_No!_ “Just thinking about… school.” It wasn’t completely dishonest, and it was likely less offensive than ‘I was checking you out’, which made him feel rather old and lecherous. He wasn’t even interested in her _that_ way, and it boggled the mind that he was he was thinking about anything of the sort at all.

If Roxanne doubted his statement, she didn’t show it. “Well, we can, er, Apparate now.”

When he took a look around, Oliver saw that they were already behind the old gothic church, where most of the wizard folk in the area came so they could arrive incognito. From there, they Apparated across town to an alley next to a pub that had closed down almost a decade before. The building in which Roxanne’s flat was located was a mere ten minutes’ walk, and he was chagrined to find himself wishing it wasn’t so close. Though she made him feel like a veritable antique, she was fun to be around.

Their trek continued, and wanting to make the most of it, Oliver said, “So, tell me what you were saying while I was being rude and inattentive.”

Roxanne reddened. “Oh, nothing much. I was just talking about how much different it is to play on a pro team than a school team. I’m not used to being so low in the pecking order.”

He knew exactly how she felt in that respect. He’d been the Captain for three years at Hogwarts, only to be the newest of newbies in his first season. “It won’t last long, I promise. You keep making saves like you did today, and the whole team will think you’re the dog’s bollocks in just a few weeks. You’ll probably be getting fan mail as early as tomorrow.”

Scoffing, she said, “I doubt that. Likely it’ll be hate mail, telling me how I’ll never be able to replace you.”

It was Oliver’s turn to be incredulous. “Oh, I doubt that. You’ll turn out better than I ever was. You’re quicker and more agile.”

From there, they launched into a heated debate about the advantages of size versus speed, both of them ironically siding with the other’s skill set. The remaining time it took to arrive at Roxanne’s flat flew by, and by the time either of them realised it, they were already up the stairs and standing next to her door.

Looking at the entry, Roxanne frowned. “It’s odd. I don’t even remember how we got here.”

Truthfully, neither did Oliver, but he instead took this opportunity to pick on her a bit. “Down the street and up the stairs.”

She playfully punched his shoulder, and he pretended to lose his balance. The comical flailing of his limbs elicited the most unexpected reaction from her: a giggle. Oliver had never heard such a sound come out of Roxanne, but the smooth, silvery peal of it suited her and garnered an involuntary grin from him.

When their mirth subsided, Roxanne tapped her doorknob with her wand. Since he lived in that very building in his younger days (it was a favoured locale for the Quidditch players), he knew that the locks were tuned to only certain wands; it made him feel much better about leaving her there on her own. But at the thought of parting ways, Oliver found that he didn’t want to. It had been ages since he’d enjoyed someone else’s company as much as he did hers.

The silence that had fallen between them started to become awkward, which prompted Roxanne to break it, though her speech was not that much less discomfiting. “Well, er, I suppose that’s it then. We’re here… obviously. I’d invite you in, but it’s a bit of a disaster in there.”

That Roxanne’s flat could compete with his own slovenly lifestyle was laughable, but it further endeared her to Oliver. But he knew that it would have been the height of impropriety to accept an invitation inside, so, as politely as he could, he said, “Oh, that’s okay. We should both probably be heading off to bed. Practice is at eight in the morning, so it’ll be an early start.” He nearly nodded in approval of his own statement, since he had failed to act like her coach all evening.

Nodding, Roxanne said, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I have one hell of a time getting up in the morning as it is.” She surprised him by kissing his cheek before sheepishly backing away toward her door. “Thank you for putting up with my weirdness. I had a good time, and I hope you weren’t too bored.”

Though he was nearly relieved that she acted just as awkwardly as he did, Oliver felt bad for causing it. He knew he had to leave before he said or did anything else to add to the situation. “So, I’ll, um, see you tomorrow, then.” With a quick wave, he slowly started back toward the stairs, occasionally looking over his shoulder until he saw her enter her flat.

The night had positively flown by for Oliver, and he’d had much more fun than he’d anticipated. But the solitary trip back to his own place just didn’t seem to pass quickly enough.

 

 

“And Weasley lets in another one!” the public address announcer’s voice boomed throughout the stadium, much to the delight of the sell-out crowd.

Oliver watched in concern as Roxanne started to show signs of frustration. The last two goals by the hometown Montrose Magpies were saves that she could have made in her sleep on any other day. As it was, not even catching the Snitch could’ve won the game for Puddlemere, and a loss like that would have done nothing but damage Roxanne’s confidence. He knew what had to be done,

Making his way down to the lower level to where head coach Peter Pembroke sat with three reserve players, Oliver told himself over and over that he was doing the right thing. Though it felt like a huge betrayal of the confidence that they had both shown in each other in the past couple of months, this couldn’t go on any longer. When he reached Pembroke, he said, “Pull her. She’s done.”

Not looking away from the dismal scene on the pitch, Pembroke nodded. “I agree. Duffie,” he called to the reserve Keeper, “get warmed up.”

Surprised, Logan said, “Me? Is Roxy hurt or something?”

“Something,” Oliver said grimly. “Now get moving.”

As Logan scurried off to do some quick laps behind the stadium and take a few shots from the backup Chaser, Oliver couldn’t slake the notion that he was doing something horrible to Roxanne. It would be on every sports page in the country, and it wasn’t too far off from being public humiliation, but allowing twenty-two goals in just under two hours wasn’t much better.

After five minutes and another tally for the Magpies, Logan returned with his best brave face. He’d never played in a professional match before this, and it was just about the worst circumstances under which one could start a career, but Oliver figured that trial by fire was better than no trial at all. “Next stop,” he said to Logan.

Thankfully, the next stop was a goal in favour of Puddlemere, and Pembroke called a time-out. The second the referee blew the whistle, Oliver sent the hand signal to Jamie for the player switch. Nodding in acknowledgement, the Seeker flew to the ref to do as he was told and then made his way to Roxanne. The message was presumed delivered when she started shouting at Jamie almost loudly enough to hear from a few hundred feet away.

Eventually, though, she left the pitch and went straight toward the clubhouse. Not even bothering to make sure Logan was settled in, Oliver felt compelled to chase after her. He had no idea what he was supposed to say, but whatever it was, she would probably tell him off like she did Jamie.

When he approached the clubhouse, the sounds of bellowed profanity for security personnel to get out of her way and slamming doors told him he wasn’t far behind. From the hall outside the dressing room, a cacophony of crashing tables and benches met his ears and forewarned him on the rage that resided within — rage that was no doubt directed at him.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver opened the door. Roxanne kicked over the last standing bench and uttered an almost subhuman shriek of frustration. Angrily, she yanked off her robes, leaving her in nothing but a sweaty tank top and shorts, chest heaving from the exertion of wrecking the room. The borderline primal expression on her face made him uncomfortable, but not because he feared for his safety; it was almost arousing. If he hadn’t felt so horrible about having her taken out of the game, he might have even acknowledged that she was hot when she was mad.

However, that attraction was quickly squelched when she noticed that she wasn’t alone. Her expression turned much closer to vicious when she saw that it was him. “Why did you do that? I was bouncing back!”

“No, you weren’t,” Oliver said, wishing he could’ve been anywhere else at the moment.

She stalked up to him and stood toe-to-toe, her eyes nearly level with his. In almost a growl, she said, “And just what do you think this is going to prove?” Jabbing her finger in the vague direction of the pitch, she shouted, “Those are _my_ hoops!”

“Right now, they’re everyone’s hoops,” Oliver said calmly, though his most fervent desire was to dish out every last morsel of rage that she was sending his way. He disliked being shouted at, especially when he’d done nothing wrong.

His comment fuelled a fresh tide of indignation. “So _now_ I’m not good enough? Last week, I was the saviour of the whole damned team, but now I’m just some scrub that can’t live up to the legacy of Oliver _fucking_ Wood.”

The last threads of his control were wearing thin, and to let her know exactly how far she had ventured into malignant territory, Oliver grabbed her upper arms and jerked her roughly toward him. “You listen to me,” he hissed, “because I’m only going to say this once. I know what’s good for you more than you do, and if you have any _idea_ what’s good for you, you will calm down. Now.” He was fairly certain that he had never spoken thus to anyone in his life, but she was angling to make herself a special exception.

Rather than diffuse the matter, his ultimatum only served to push Roxanne over the edge. Oliver barely had time to catch her wrist mid-air before it made contact with his cheek. Barely restraining his own fury, he pinned both of her wrists against the wall above her head and growled, “Enough.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, their laboured breathing was in sync as they both seemingly struggled for mastery over their all-too-similar displeasure together. But as they both simmer down, Roxanne’s expression changed, and what Oliver saw made him want to be sick.

Hurt. Sadness. Betrayal. Defeat. All his fault, of course, though he wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with being pulled from the match anymore. Somewhere, she had gone from railing about her day ending early to gazing up at him with sombre, wounded eyes. He couldn’t help but think that only the biggest arse in the universe could cause her pain when she was looking at him like that, but he’d gone and done it anyhow.

Feeling scalded by guilt, he released her and stepped back. “Practice at half six tomorrow morning,” he mumbled before practically running out of the room. He was a supreme form of coward for leaving her there like that and an even worse coach for not giving a damn about the rest of the match, but his head was spinning. He had to fix this somehow.


	3. Just Say Yes

When seven o’clock rolled around and Roxanne was still not there, Oliver stopped trying to convince himself that she’d just slept in. If she wasn’t there by then, chances were that she wasn’t coming at all. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry, though; if their roles were reversed, he would have thought about not showing up, too. Whether he would have the guts to do it or not, he wasn’t sure, but he was already fairly convinced that Roxanne had a bigger pair of proverbial bollocks than him.

But come eight-thirty when the rest of the team arrived, her absence would not have gone unnoticed by the head coach, and Oliver wasn’t sure if he had the power to excuse her from practice. She needed a day off, but simply not showing up wasn’t the way to do that; it was a quick and effective way to get her on Pembroke’s bad side.

His mind made up, Oliver left the field and Apparated into town. The walk to Roxanne’s flat was made in almost record time, and he sprinted up the stairs and to her door. However, when he got there, just as he was about to knock, his hand stopped a couple inches before contact. Would she even talk to him? He didn’t doubt that he was low on the list of people she’d want to see at that moment, but he was having serious doubts about whether she would bother at all.

And that ate at him. For almost three months, he had seen her for hours every single day, and sparring with her was a mainstay in his life. If she didn’t show up for practice and defaulted on her contract by her absence being unexcused, she could easily have found herself suspended or off the team before she even knew it happened. She was a good Keeper, and with some work and experience, she had the potential to be a great one, and even if she hated his guts, he still owed it to her to get her career back on track before it was over.

That thought propelled him to pound on the door for all he was worth. “Roxy!” he shouted, uncaring that his voice was reverberating through the corridor. “Roxy, open up!” When no answer came from inside, he used his foot for a heavier knock. “Roxy!” The desperation in his voice made him sound like a jilted lover, but he didn’t care, even when other doors in the hallway started opening, their sleepy owners investigating the early morning noise disturbance.

Ignoring the audience that he was accruing, Oliver didn’t give up. His assault on the door escalated; had the building not had any Muggle inhabitants, he might have even cursed the door clean off. After yet more futile effort, he took out his wand to do just that and hang the consequences, but the curse died on his lips when the door creaked open.

She was wearing the same thing he had seen her in last, and her hair was reminiscent of a rats’ nest. Eyes red and puffed, the skin around them was bruised and sunken from what he presumed to be the lack of sleep. A sickly pallor marred her normally warm brown complexion, giving her a depraved, half-dead look. This was not the Roxanne he knew, and he hoped to never see this pale representation of her again.

“What do you want?” she said flatly, her voice dry and devoid of expression.

“You have to come to practice. I know you know what happens if you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do.”

His heart sank as she said that. She had given up, and he had put her there. It wasn’t about him pulling her from the game anymore; whatever had pushed her over the edge was something different. Oliver struggled to figure out what it had been. When he thought back to their argument in the changing room, she had been outraged by being taken out of the match. No sulking, no crying… she had been ready and willing to rip him to shreds with her bare hands, but somewhere in the middle, she had gone from fighting for her position to looking at him like he had stabbed her in the heart.

Nevertheless, he was going to make this right. “I’m sorry. I was horrible to you, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Peering down the hall at the few people who had gathered to watch the fireworks, Roxanne whispered, “Inside. Now.”

When Oliver did as he was told, she slammed the door behind him. “The last thing I need is to read about this in the paper later. I’ve already had enough of being made a spectacle.” Not casting him so much as a sideways glance, she flopped on the sofa, hugging one of the throw pillows like a life preserver.

It was then that Oliver noticed the half empty bottle sitting on the end table and the rubbish bin next to it, no doubt full of vomit. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I don’t.”

“Then…”

“It’s not mine. I bought it, but I didn’t drink it.”

Oliver was confused. “I don’t understand. If it’s… then you… what happened?” he said finally, done with trying to speculate.

“I slept with Logan last night.”

Her words clamped around Oliver’s stomach like a vice. “You… what?”

Giving him a scathing look, Roxanne spat, “Are you stupid or something? You heard what I said.”

Ignoring the barb, Oliver sat down next to her and pulled her to his chest. He could feel her breaking down as her body shook against him. Whatever deep, piercing wound he had inflicted on her, it had caused her to sleep with someone he was pretty sure she didn’t even like. More disturbing, though, was how this made him feel. Not only did he want to hold her there forever, he wanted to hex Logan into a pulp, even though he’d probably not done anything wrong.

It took nearly a half-hour of sobbing and murmured consolations before Roxanne was able to continue with her story. Sniffing loudly, she lifted her head, letting Oliver see the intense self-hatred that marred her face. “He came over after the match to see if I was okay. I had already bought the bottle, and I tried to drink it but couldn’t do it. Then he showed up, and I poured him one. Then another.

“And then I got the bright idea to get him completely wasted so I could try to… you know.” Her cheeks pinkened at the admission. "He likes me, and I thought it would be easy."

His brows shot into the air. “ _You_ seduced _Logan?_ Why?”

Instead of answering him, Roxanne straddled his waist and crushed her mouth to his. Even though her breath was bitter and her lips dry, Oliver couldn’t bring himself to push her away. He shivered when her hands slid under his shirt and her nails dug into his flesh. His blood throbbed hotly, crying its approval, and with a guttural groan, he roughly grabbed her buttocks and hitched her body further up his torso for a better angle.

Though it had taken a compete folly like this to realise it, Oliver finally understood. Her problem, his problem, _the_ problem. It had always come down to those tiny little embers that flared up between them when either of them became emotional, and this was always to be the end result. He wanted her, and she wanted him just as badly, and propriety be damned.

But when her hands moved to the fastening of his trousers, Oliver knew this had to stop. She was still fragile from her breakdown, and her sheets probably still smelt of the man-boy she’d shagged who was young enough to be his son. Firmly pushing against her shoulders, Oliver said, “No.”

Ignoring his assertion, she leant in to nip at his neck. “Don’t be like that, because the rest of you says otherwise.” To prove her point, she slid her hand over the bulge that had formed in his lap.

Oliver was loudly panting, trying with every speck of self-control he possessed not to let her have her way with him. For certain, the thoughts of what could’ve occurred would haunt his dreams for months, but his mind clung to that memory of her tears staining his shirt as she poured out her misery. He couldn’t do that to her; he cared about her enough that the fact that he desired her didn’t matter.

Holding on to that thought and to her, Oliver heaved both of them off the sofa and dragged her toward the bathroom. At first, she was submissive, as the loo and the bedroom were right next to one another, but when she saw that he wasn’t about to give her what they both wanted, she flailed her limbs in protest. It took every shred of physical superiority that he held over her to wrestle her unwilling body into the bathroom and eventually the shower. Both still clothed, though him more than her, he pinned her to the wall so he could turn on the water and put her in front of the stream. He could feel the cold of the persistent liquid through his garments, even though she blocked most of it, but she needed to clean up and cool off if she was going to keep her job by going to practice. Even her shriek of protest didn’t deter him.

“Let me go!” she shouted. “I hate you!”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” he said into her hair, likely not even loud enough to be heard over her angry grunting and the water pelting them both. _But I don’t hate you_ , he added to himself.

After ten or so minutes of this battle of wills, Oliver hauled them both out, immediately pulling a towel around Roxanne to help assuage her shuddering. His wand in his sodden pocket, he cast a Drying Charm and then a Warming Charm on both of them, hoping that he’d not given her pneumonia. Eventually, her discomfort eased and she vacantly stumbled toward her room. He followed her to make sure she was getting dressed and not climbing back into bed. Sure enough, she sifted through her wardrobe for a fresh kit and changed — underwear and all — right in front of him.

The flashes of smooth flesh that he saw smote his breath right in his lungs. Oliver knew he should have left her to her privacy, but he was simply too captivated by the bare skin of this lovely woman who had just tried to get into his pants not fifteen minutes before. He wanted to touch it, to see if it was as soft as it looked, but he couldn’t do that. Not if he expected his self-control to survive.

Finally, Roxanne turned back toward him, her expression, or lack thereof, hardened. “Let’s get this over with,” she said before striding past him and toward the lounge. He followed, almost in disbelief that he had actually been able to get her to change her mind, though he kept an eye on her hand in case she decided to take out her wand and curse him then and there.

They both Apparated separately to the practice facility with only fifteen minutes before full team practice was set to begin, and Roxanne went straight to the dressing room, where the training staff had likely prepared her gear. This time, however, he didn’t follow her inside, knowing for sure that she would come out, and ten minutes later, she did.

Though the rest of the team patted her on the shoulder to show their support despite the eventual loss, Logan stayed on the far side of the pitch. He didn’t cast so much as a glance their way, which told Oliver that he was either upset that Roxanne had taken advantage of him after plying him with liquor or upset that she didn’t actually care about him. Logan didn’t strike Oliver as the lost puppy type, so he assumed it was the former. His suspicions were confirmed when he put them together for a ‘meeting’; Logan couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ground in front of him, and Roxanne stared at something just over Oliver’s left shoulder.

With a heavy sigh, Oliver said, “This ends now. I know you’re both upset about what happened, but welcome to pro Quidditch. When you take the pitch, your personal problems don’t matter. You have a job to do, so leave all the petty shit at home.”

“I haven’t done anything! _She_ used me.” Logan said indignantly, showing more backbone than he ever had before. “It’s _her_ fault, and if I wanted to, I could report her for sexual harassment.”

“And what exactly is that going to do for you?” Oliver sneered unsympathetically. “Sure, Roxy gets fired and likely never plays again, and you get the starting job. You wouldn’t last three games before they replaced you, and you’ll be branded a washout by the end of your first season. And she still won't look at you again. Is that what you really want, kid? Will destroying her really make you feel any better?”

It didn’t take long for Oliver’s message to sink in. Logan crossed his arms and diverted his eyes down and to the side, careful not to look at either of them, but at least the majority of the crisis had been averted. Neither of them were likely to be all that focused, but at least they were there and could both use the excuse that they were recovering from their first tough game. Rookies tended to get a free pass after that type of match, and Oliver was going to use it to his advantage.

After a while of being put through the familiar paces of practice and drills, both Roxanne and Logan began to look like their normal selves, and with a couple more days, they could have even been ready to speak to one another willingly. The ensuing peace, however, allowed his brain to activate and start thinking of how this whole ordeal had affected him.

He still wanted her, though she likely would’ve rather had nothing more to do with him. His blood still burned and his heart still raced when he recalled her pressed up against him, the heady scent of sweat more of a turn on than a deterrent. What he wouldn’t have given to be in Logan’s shoes, getting to lose himself in her before he had even known she was offering. Her cries of pleasure would have been all for him, and his hands would have gone to work to send her into even more of a frenzy.

Oliver registered the warning shouts long after his instinctual dodging of a stray Quaffle. A reverie wasn’t a great place to be on a Quidditch pitch, which Oliver remembered just in time to save his own neck. Numb with shock, he picked the ball up from the ground and gave it a mighty heave toward the pack of Chasers who sheepishly looked on as they nearly clobbered a coach. However, to Oliver, it reaffirmed something that had been percolating in the back of his mind all day.

He had lost his step. Not only had it cost him, it had driven a girl who needed his guidance to sleep with a teammate in order to get over pain and heartbreak that he’d caused her. He was hardly a fit human being, let alone a fit coach. Plus, if Roxanne did happen to not hate him after that morning, there was no chance of anything between them so long as he was in a position of authority over her. It was wrong and unethical, not to mention unfair to both of them.

That left two options: Quidditch or Roxanne. With him there, nothing but damage to her career could come of it. An affair would get them both fired, and though she’d have a shot at catching on somewhere, he would be finished. If he quit this early in his contract, no team would have him again, either, but Roxanne would get a new coach and keep on being the brilliant player that she was. With only one of them attached to the team, then whatever happened between them would be their own business. He doubted anything would happen, but at least she would have her life ahead of her still.

Though practice was almost over, Oliver went straight to Philbert’s office. He had to do it before he lost the nerve, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was making the right decision for Roxanne; what happened to him didn’t matter. Without even bothering to knock, he opened the door. The general manager was jolted from his customary pile of paperwork, but when he saw who it was, he smiled. “Wood!”

“Phil.” Sitting at the chair opposite Philbert, Oliver said, “We need to talk.”

The ominous note in Oliver’s voice wasn’t lost on Philbert. However, the other man didn’t seem quite as surprised as expected. “I think so, too.”

Not bothering with pretence, Oliver blurted, “I quit.”

Whatever Philbert had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “Wh-what? You just started!”

“What did you think this was about?”

Sighing, Philbert said, “I thought you were talking about the mess Roxanne made of the dressing room in Montrose. Management has sent us a bill.”

“I’ll pay it,” Oliver said dismissively. “I don’t give a damn about that. I’m doing this for the good of the team, not for me.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but the thought of being free to be around Roxanne was a stimulating one. For good measure, he added, “I’m not coaching material. Both the players hate me, and it was my fault Roxy trashed the room.”

Shaking his head, Philbert said, “Pete said pulling her was the right call.”

“I didn’t do it right, and she nearly quit because of it. She’s an inexperienced player, and I’m an inexperienced coach. This isn’t going to work out with both of us, and Roxy’s more valuable to you than I’ll ever be.”

When Philbert didn’t disagree, Oliver knew that his point had been made. The right decision was going to be made, and it meant that Oliver wasn’t going to set foot in that office ever again. A slight nod was all the affirmation he needed before standing. “I’ll send for my things.”

As he had his hand on the doorknob, though, Philbert called out, “One more thing, Wood.”

Not turning back but not leaving either, Oliver waited.

“Is she worth it?”

Though he was certain Philbert was referring to Roxanne’s value to the franchise as a player, Oliver was more concerned about what she meant to him. Without hesitation, he said, “Definitely,” and walked out of the office.

 

 

Hours later, Oliver plucked up the courage to tell Roxanne face to face. No doubt she had already heard the news, but he wanted her to know why he did it, and he wanted to do it face to face. This time more sedately, he rapped on her door, and she answered it immediately. But when she saw that it was him, she bit her lip and looked away.

“So you quit on me, huh?”

“I didn’t quit on you,” he said. Just as she had that morning, he looked around and said, “Can we go inside?” When she gestured him in, he darted inside, only to find that she’d been in the middle of cleaning and… packing. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to ask for a trade so you can come back.” Flicking her wand and sending a few things into an empty box, she said, “I’m not going to let you lose your job because of me.”

Already becoming aggravated, he said, “Well, it’s not your call. I’m not that good of a coach, and you have a great future with this team. What happens to you is a hell of a lot more important than what happens to me.”

“Bullshit,” she hissed, tossing her wand on the coffee table. “I learnt more from you than in five years of playing at Hogwarts, and I’ll be fucked if I’m going to let you get away with quitting like some sort of coward. You’re better than that.”

The more she said, the more Roxanne’s words infuriated Oliver. “To hell I am! What sort of man could I possibly be, hot for a girl less than half my age who is supposed to be my student? A fucking pathetic excuse for a man, that’s what! I don’t know who you think I am, Roxy, but I’m not a saint. If I work for another team, every time I so much as see you, all I’ll think about is how much I want to shag you until you scream my name. I can’t function like that, and I doubt it would go over well with management, either.”

Roxanne stared. “Are you… are you in love with me?”

“Yes… no… how the hell should I know! I don’t know what love is, and I don’t think I even care. All I know is that I want you so badly that it’s giving me a stomach ache.” Oliver could scarcely believe he was admitting any of this, but they both needed to know where one another stood. This was where he stood, and now it was her turn.

Her answer wasn’t the one that he’d been expecting. She didn’t tell him to leave, and she didn’t pour her heart out like he had just done. Instead, she slapped him _very_ hard. “That’s for thinking you know everything.” As he was still reeling from the first strike, she hit him again. “And _that’s_ for being right all the time. I hate you when you do that!”

Oliver gaped at her, too stunned to react. Any delusions of understanding Roxanne before were promptly squashed as the imprint of her palm flamed on his cheek. What hadn’t been stalled was how badly he wanted to make her lose her mind. Who needed a mind when all it did was get in the way of a good thing. And what was the idea of love but one of the semantics of sex and relationships.

When his brain switched off and the rest of him took over, Oliver had no idea, but Roxanne was not far behind. Their bodies crushed together, and the resulting kiss was hungry and feral. Months of mixed signals and sexual frustration poured out of him and into her, and in return, she tore his shirt off of his torso and rent his skin with her fingernails. His reply was to pop the button off of her jeans and push them off of her hips and to the floor, and she answered him once more by pulling him by the hair to give her lips better leverage.

It wasn’t long before they lost balance and fell to the floor in a heap, Roxanne on top, but that didn’t deter either of them. In one fluid motion, she both kicked her trousers all the way off and pulled her top over her head, flinging it carelessly to the side. Oliver drank in the sight of the mocha skin that he had fantasised about all day as his hands snaked up her back to unhook her bra, which soon joined the rest of their clothing pile. The pent-up flesh that he freed pled to be touched, and he obliged, teasing dark twin peaks until their owner threw her head back and cried out. Every decibel of her voice encouraged his rampaging fingers until all she could do was groan hoarsely.

Oliver knew that he wouldn’t get away with torturing her for too long. When she regained a shred of her composure, Roxanne ground her bottom into his lap, the contact sending shockwaves of pleasure into his very core even through the fabric of his trousers. Seeing his predicament, her face was smug as she leant in and whispered against his mouth, “You’re overdressed.”

Tracing the outline of the sole scrap of cloth on her body, Oliver smirked and said, “So are you.” With a brisk tug, the cotton of her panties gave way. “Much better.”

Not to be outdone, Roxanne unfastened his fly and, slinking forward on his chest, hooked the waistband with her feet and pushed as hard as she could. The manoeuvre left Oliver breathless as his imagination ran amuck with the incredible things she could do with that sort of leg strength and agility. And with only his boxers standing between them, he greedily yearned to do all of them.

Save for the gentle strains of their breathing, there was silence between them, a building sense of anticipation. Her eyes smouldered with desire, and when her tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip, he almost lost control right there. Her knowing smile told him that she was well aware of the effect of this simple action, too.

“I can see you thinking in there.” In his ear, she whispered, “Tell me. Tell me what you want.” Her tongue darted out and traced the outline of his ear, sending a shiver of desire to every particle of his being.

His senses were buffeted by so many things that he  could’ve only dreamt, but when they subsided, all that was left was her. She was all he really wanted; the rest was meaningless without that vital connection. He felt that her satisfaction was more important than his own, yet as he stared into the rich brown depths of her eyes, even that felt secondary. Only once had he ever felt such a profound bond with another person, and it had been almost a lifetime before.

At last, he knew what he wanted. “Tell me why you want me.”

Though it seemed like she hadn’t expected this request, Roxanne didn’t hesitate in her answer. “When I was a teenager, I would’ve given anything for you to look at me like you do now. I idolised you and thought you were a sexy, brooding Quidditch superhero. Imagine my surprise when I actually met you.” She giggled. “You’re none of those things, yet I’m far more attracted to this version of you than the one I’d expected. You’re cranky, defensive, pushy, and nearly intolerable, but I’m so stupidly in love with you just the way you are.”

She loved him. Wanting so badly to believe what he’d just heard, Oliver caressed the smooth curve of her cheek. Her expression was serene and relaxed, completely comfortable with him despite her bare body. He had no idea what could make this sex-on-legs, naked goddess straddling his waist want him and not the droves of blokes she’d inevitably have to send packing, but he wasn’t going to push his luck.

Roxanne kissed his cheek. “I know you can’t say it now, but I think you love me, too. Just do us both a favour and don’t overthink it, okay?” Tossing her hair back, she raised a brow. “Can we _please_ have sex now?”

While every last inch of him celebrated, Oliver added, “About that. I was wondering if you can, er, do a split…”


End file.
